


there was a light (that you gave to me)

by zjofierose



Series: star, star verse (YOI poly verse) [6]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Background OT4, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Polyamory, Sleepy Sex, Supportive Victor Nikiforov, Sweet, Victor Nikiforov/Yuuri Katsuki/Yuri Plisetsky/Otabek Altin, Yuri Plisetsky Swears, a day in the life, a few years down the road, competitive victor and yuri, established polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:07:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24034033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zjofierose/pseuds/zjofierose
Summary: With Otabek and Yuuri preparing for Four Continents, Victor and Yuri are left to enjoy each other's company and distract each other from loneliness. Also, there is some dancing.
Relationships: Victor Nikiforov/Yuri Plisetsky
Series: star, star verse (YOI poly verse) [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1596319
Comments: 5
Kudos: 46
Collections: YOI Training Week





	there was a light (that you gave to me)

**Author's Note:**

> This is my fic for Training Week Day 3. Yes, this is over a month late. Yes, I am posting these fics out of order. I blame _gestures vaguely_ everything. Please to enjoy this Softe Smut.
> 
> Part of the Star, Star verse, which is my Otabek/Victor/Yuri/Yuuri OT4 series.
> 
> Many thanks to @lazulila, who doesn't even go here, for holding my hand. <3

Victor is already at the rink when Yuri gets there at seven am, his golden blades cutting long, curving lines in the smooth surface of the ice. It’s annoying, on several levels, and Yuri is tired enough and petty enough to lean into the irritation he still feels from waking up alone and cold in their big bed. 

“Hey,  _ asshole _ ,” he calls, dragging his gear bag rink-side and dropping it with an echoing thump. “You could’ve at least given me a ride.”

Victor just laughs, the shithead, and keeps skating, stretching into deep bends and long arches, warming up his muscles in a way that Yuri knows is designed to show off his ass. 

It’s a good ass, Yuri won’t lie. But he’s still annoyed. 

He finishes lacing his skates and stomps to the edge of the rink, grabbing the speaker hookup and plugging in his phone. He doesn’t feel fully awake yet in spite of the shot of espresso he’d pounded before he left the apartment, and the chill breeze of Victor whizzing past the boards makes him shiver. 

“Don’t forget to warm up, Yura,” Victor calls, silver hair ruffling in the wind of his passing, and Yuri flushes. 

“I’m not a fucking  _ idiot _ , old man,” he shouts back, flinging a leg on top of the boards and dipping the other into a _plie_. “I’ve only been doing this for the last  _ fifteen years of my life _ .”

Victor just smiles serenely, like he knows that Yuri had, actually, forgotten about stretching in his sleepy morning haze. He probably  _ does _ know, Yuri thinks resignedly; he’s never in his life been able to keep secrets from Victor’s all-seeing, all-knowing, utterly ridiculous self. Victor may be forgetful, may be a flake when it serves him, may not always know how to read other people very well, but Yuri, for some reason, is an open book. 

(“He sees what’s important to him,” Katsudon tells him when he complains about this, “even if he doesn’t always know what to do with the information, he sees what goes on.” Otabek just shrugs. “He’s always watched you,” he says nonchalantly, like it’s something everyone accepts as fact. “Of course he knows.”)

On the ice, Victor is jumping, systematically working his way through all of the jumps, first singles, then doubles, then triples. He’ll do several more sets all the way through before adding quads; it’s how his technique has been perfected. Victor never moves on to the next thing until he has utterly mastered the previous step, never gives up or gives in until he’s conquered the problem at hand. 

This is the Victor that almost no one sees, Yuri thinks, finishing his stretches and stepping onto the slick surface of the rink. Victor the perfectionist, Victor the work horse. Victor who starts at the crack of dawn and goes well into the night, Victor who works and works and  _ works _ until his movement on the ice is like air, like light, like a ripple across water. This is the Victor whose world-renowned artistry is merely the barest tip of the insanely dedicated athlete who has been winning medals for the last two decades.

It’s possibly Yuri’s favorite Victor, he thinks as he glides out onto the ice, beginning his own warm-ups. Yuuri gets Vitka the romantic and Victor the coach; Otabek gets Vitya the boyfriend and Victor the enthusiastic competitor; but Yuri’s the one who gets Victor Nikiforov, pride of Russia, Victor Mikhailovich Nikiforov, living legend, who, at 32, is still almost entirely undefeated. 

The music starts, a practice mix Otabek had left for them before he and Katsudon had flown off to spend a week prepping for Four Continents, and Yuri grins. They’ve got two more hours before Yakov and Mila and Georgi show up, and Victor’s skating toward him already with a hand outstretched. Yuri reaches back, and they’re off.

\--

After the morning ice time, they move on to the weight room where Yuri does calisthenics and Victor works on some of the free-weight exercises Otabek’s been teaching him. Victor’s always been strong, his frame broader than Yuri’s even when he was the age Yuri is now, but he’s been working on adding muscle in the last year in an effort to stabilize some of his aging joints. It’s a calculated gamble; he’s had to adjust his diet, too, so that he can add muscle without adding weight, and it’s left his body hard and spare, muscles outlined in sharp relief on his sweaty torso in a way that makes him look less like the ethereal creature of Yuri’s early adolescent fantasies and more like a sculpted marble god. 

Victor catches him watching a bead of sweat trace its way down his lower back, and winks in the mirror. A year ago Yuri would have turned red and looked away, but now he just shifts from a kneeling stretch into camel pose, reaching back to grab his ankles and thrusting his pelvis hard toward the glass, putting his tongue between his teeth and winking back as Victor’s weights wobble minutely before he brings them under control.

They stretch each other out before lunch, hard hands on ankles and wrists, long torsos pushing against each other as they groan into the pain of release. It’s intimate by necessity, but Yuri forces himself not to linger on the strips of warm, bare skin where Victor’s shirt-sleeves have ridden up. The day is young, and they still have work to do; champions who get distracted by sex don’t stay champions very long.

They release each other’s bodies with a sense of unspoken mutual regret that Yuri’s grateful for; it’s so much easier, all of this, now that he’s not in it alone. It had been torture before, trying to pretend not to see Victor as more than a mentor, trying not to flush or flinch at the barest touch. Getting together had taken some adjustment, okay, a  _ lot _ of adjustment, on all their parts, but - it’s worth it. Yuri wouldn’t trade it for the world.

\--

Victor grabs their food from the team fridge and Yuri grabs their jackets and trails after him to the lounge. Yuuri’s gotten them all in the habit of making a week’s worth of healthy lunches every Sunday, and Victor and Yuri have matching glass firkins of rice, vegetables, and chicken that they take turns heating in the vintage soviet microwave. It rattles and hums, but still functions, and in spite of the team’s collective penchant for flash and luxury, they none of them started out rich. The microwave will get replaced when it finally breaks for good, and not before. 

Yuri grabs their heated food and a couple of forks while Victor snags their lunchtime reading from across the room. Their books are in their respective lounge cubbies; one for each skater, indicated with a print-and-stick label ceremonially placed once a skater has been officially taken on by Yakov. Some of the cubbies have a peeling layer of stickers half an inch thick, an administrative legacy of skaters who came and then left, whether due to injury or washing out or just simple retirement. Yuri’s label is only a couple of stickers deep, his own having been applied when a skater who was well Victor’s senior had decided to call it quits. Victor’s is the only original label remaining, ink so faded only the B is still visible before the shadow of the following letters. It doesn’t matter; everyone knows which cubby is his.

Victor drops their books and supplies while Yuri sets down their food and utensils and they settle in with the force of well-established routine, spreading out across the flat formica surface between them to eat and do homework. There’s no need for discussion or negotiation of the space; they know what they need, and give it without question.

They’re both capable of eating with one hand while they write with the other, Victor through innate ambidextrousness and Yuri because he’d seen Victor do it when he was ten and had subsequently practiced until he could do it too, as smoothly as if he’d been born to it. It’s a microcosm of their relationship writ in the physical which only serves to highlight a theme that makes Yuri uncomfortable: Victor, the original, the gifted wunderkind; Yuri, the upstart, copying his every move and nipping at his heels. 

He’d said as much to Victor once, and Victor had thrown an arm around his shoulders and laughed. “You only say that because you don’t remember the skaters who I copied shamelessly,” he’d said, shaking his head. “Nothing in skating is truly original; it’s all just reinterpretation. Besides,” he’d looked fondly over at Yuuri where he sat in the sun, whole attention fixed on his handheld game, “someone once literally spent a month learning my gold-medal-winning program to pull themselves out of depression, and it wasn’t you, so I wouldn’t worry too much about it.”

Yuri had rolled his eyes and shoved his feet into Victor’s lap, letting it go. It’s true, he supposes, that they’re all just borrowing from everyone who’s gone before them, in dance as much as in skating. Still, he thinks there’s some truth to how Otabek and Yuuri both say he and Victor are so alike. Victor shares Yuri’s temper, though he’s learned the value of controlling it where Yuri values unleashing it; they’re both unapologetically arrogant and ambitious, which they get away with by being the best at what they do; they’re both emotionally repressed, albeit in different ways; they both lack the strength and stamina of their mutual partners, and make up for it in sheer bloody-mindedness. For every difference there’s a shared framework, for every personality quirk, a common goal, and yet sometimes Yuri still thinks they barely understand each other at all.

“ _ дерьмо _ ,” Victor mutters under his breath, and Yuri turns his attention from his Japanese worksheets to where Victor’s biting his lip in frustration. 

“What,” Yuri says, desperate for a distraction. He’d picked up Japanese easily enough in Hasetsu when he was surrounded by it, and could practice on the triplets and the ever-patient Yuuko and Hiroko, but trying to remember all the different letter forms is a pain in the ass, and in retrospect, he’s not sure how Otabek ever talked him into this.

“It’s just,” Victor gestures pissily at the book and notepad in front of him where he’s been notating words in careful print. Here is another thing most people don’t know about Victor Nikiforov, Yuri thinks, eyeing the scratched out letters in every other word. For all his utter artistic and athletic brilliance, and his fluency in three languages and semi-fluency in another two, Victor is dyslexic, and book learning gives him fits. “It’s just that it’s so  _ close _ ,” he gestures at the characters on the page, and Yuri, who has visited Almaty, nods sympathetically. Kazakh really looks like it  _ should _ be Russian, but it’s not, not even actually similar at all, and Yuri knows the feeling of staring at a word that ought to make sense and just  _ doesn’t _ .

“You could switch to working on your Japanese,” Yuri says, “Otabek would understand. Everyone in Almaty speaks Russian anyway, it’s not like we  _ need _ to learn it to get around when we’re there.”

Victor just shakes his head, and dog-ears a page in the book in front of him. “No,” he says, his voice resigned. “You and Otabek are learning Japanese for Yuuri, and Yuuri’s learning Russian for us; it’s only fair that someone learns Kazakh for Otabek.”

Yuri rolls his eyes. He wants to say it doesn’t matter, but he’d seen the look on Otabek’s face the first time Victor greeted him in his mother tongue. It  _ does _ matter, even if Otabek would never say so, and Yuri makes a mental note to ask Otabek for some Kazakh 101 podcasts or some shit like that. Maybe then Victor can at least get comfortable in carrying on a conversation with his usual easy grace instead of just beating his head on a textbook.

“Come on, old man,” he says, pushing at Victor’s leg with his foot. “Homework’s boring. Finish your sentences and let’s go dance.”

\--

Victor never trained in ballet with the devotion that Yuuri did, or the intensity that Yuri still does, but like every other Russian figure skater, he’d gone through mandatory years of it as a pre-teen and teenager. He loves dance, but for Victor the love of it is less in the art form itself, and more in the sharing of it with others. He’s technically proficient at ballet, contemporary, ballroom, and (Yuri finds this hilarious) Russian folk dance, but it doesn’t  _ excite _ him the way dancing with a partner does, doesn’t bring out the passion that makes him  _ Victor Nikiforov _ . 

It makes Yuri wonder sometimes what Victor would have been like as a pairs skater, what would have happened if he hadn’t shown so much early potential and had instead been shunted off into the ice dance and pairs skating ranks. You can see it in Yuuri’s exhibition skate easily, the joy Victor takes in creating art  _ with _ someone. It also probably explains a lot of what Victor gets out of choreographing, if Yuri’s honest - that sense of collaboration, where the steps and outline and vision are Victor’s, but the artistry and execution are the skater’s. 

Yuri tells himself that it’s also why, once they’ve done a full warm up, he moves them into  _ pas de deux.  _

It’s the week after Europeans, and they both know their programs backward and forward; studio time is to keep them in shape, to keep them refined and reaching, not backsliding, but part of staying engaged is remembering to take time for enjoyment. Or, that’s how Yuuri or Victor would say it; Yuri would say, if he has to rehearse his programs one more goddamn time he’s going to fucking  _ scream _ .

So, instead, Yuri pulls up another playlist on his phone, this one a series of classic duets, and takes the starting position to the balcony scene. Victor’s lips tip up in a smile as he assumes the corresponding stance, and as the music begins Victor locks Yuri’s eyes with his own, holding his gaze like a hypnotist. 

Sometimes, for a moment, Yuri thinks he’s outgrown his childish awe of Victor, but then Victor will move, just so, will tip his head and make a shape with his body that is a brand new type of exquisite, and Yuri’s heart will catch in his throat all over again at the sheer delicate power of Victor’s art. 

There is nothing at all childish about the awe that fills him when Victor’s big hands wrap around his hips for a lift, Yuri rising into the air effortlessly and extended, the absolute trust in Victor not to drop him never in question. The width of Victor’s strong fingers and the firmness of his grip drive the blood in Yuri’s body hot through his veins, and the flicker of satisfaction in Victor’s gaze says that he knows exactly the effect he has on Yuri.

_ Fine _ , Yuri thinks, and lifts his leg impossibly higher, showcasing the flexibility that Victor has long lost, drawing Victor’s eyes to the narrow strength of his core before the hard flare of his thighs. Yuri is still slim, still narrow and shorter than Victor in spite of his late-adolescent growth-spurt and the subsequent muscle he’d gained, and Yuri eats up the look on Victor’s face as he arches his back and lets Victor lift him into the air, setting Yuri on his shoulder and letting his body drag down Victor’s on its slide to the floor. 

They dance. Classic ballet moves into modern, and Yuri pulls Victor into his latest pet project, a modern duet to music that he knows Victor will love, spare and emotional but with fast and difficult choreography. Yuri wraps his legs around Victor’s waist and lets Victor drop his head toward the floor, then pull him back up only to cradle Yuri briefly in his arms before the steps pull them into collision after collision, their bodies meeting and parting and meeting again.

They dance for hours, because left to their own devices, Victor and Yuri will work until they fall from exhaustion, and they currently have no one around to stop them, no one to pull them from their obsessive pursuit of perfection, their endless subtextual sense of competition.

It’s only when both of their phones are going off in their bags that Victor shakes himself, spraying sweat across the studio floor, and Yuri blinks and realizes night has fallen outside the windows. Victor winces as he crosses the room to his bag and fishes out his phone, pulling a face as he puts Yuuri on video and angles him so that he can see both of them.

“ _ Moshi moshi _ ?” Victor says guiltily, and Yuuri sighs loudly at the sight of both of them, dripping and bedraggled. 

“Did you at least eat lunch?” he asks, his voice resigned and distorted by the internet. 

“ _ Yes _ , we ate lunch, Katsudon,” Yuri answers with as much asperity as he can muster. It’s not much. He needs a granola bar or something.

“Good,” Yuuri sniffs. “Now go eat dinner, but don’t forget to cool down and stretch first.”

“God,” Yuri sighs dramatically, “yes,  _ baba _ , we will cool down.”

“Thank you for taking care of us,  _ zolotse _ ,” Victor says sweetly, “are you and Otabek doing well?”

“We’re fine.” It’s Otabek’s voice, and Yuri steps nearer to Victor, who reaches out and pulls him under his arm. Yuri would object to being this close to Victor’s sweat-soaked practice shirt, but he can feel all of Victor’s hard-won muscle pressed up against him, and it’s honestly just a turn-on. 

“We’re going to meet up with Phichit for dinner,” Yuuri says excitedly, and Yuri lets his head fall to Victor’s shoulder.

Victor  _ hmms _ happily. “Please tell Phichit-kun hello for us.”

“We will,” Otabek assures him, then shoots an appraising glance at Yuri. “The Infra?”

Yuri just nods agreement, his body feeling more like a sack of noodles than a functioning human at the moment. He leans heavier against Victor, who grumbles in protest but steadies his stance to support the extra weight. It’s what he always does, Yuri thinks with a sudden burst of affection; supports the extra weight that anyone puts on him. 

“Go stretch,” Yuuri says, and it sounds like his voice is coming from a long way away, “and then go home. And don’t forget to eat before you pass out.”

“Don’t let Phichit give you too many drinks,” Victor teases, “or, if he does, take video!”

Otabek’s amused  _ hai _ echoes over Yuuri’s outraged spluttering, and then silence falls in the studio again as Victor ends the call, dropping his phone onto his bag with a sigh. He pulls Yuri around so that he’s wrapped in both of Victor’s arms, face buried in Victor’s hard chest.

“What do you say,  тигрёнок ?” Victor hums, rubbing his nose into the top of Yuri’s hair. “Home, then shower, then stretch?”

“What they don’t know won’t hurt them,” Yuri agrees.

\--

They pile into Victor’s car and drive through the glittering dark of the St. Petersburg evening to Victor’s apartment across town. It’s not really Victor’s apartment, not anymore - Yuuri has lived there for over three years now, and Yuri moved Potya out of Lilia and Yakov’s a year ago and into Victor and Yuuri’s spare room, but it’s been Victor’s apartment since Yuri moved to Pitya at ten, and he can’t think of it any other way.

Somewhere between the rink and the parking garage Yuri falls deeply, helplessly, asleep, legs splayed on the dash and body slumped against the door. He wakes only when Victor opens the door and he falls nearly onto the ground, caught at the last moment by Victor’s strong arms. 

“Yura,” Victor’s voice is soft in his ear, and Yuri doesn’t open his eyes, just groans and wraps his arms around Victor’s neck, earning himself an amused sigh. “You are too big for this,” Victor tells him, but he lifts Yuri anyway, boosting him up until Yuri wraps his legs around Victor’s waist and buries his face in Victor’s shoulder. 

He clings like a monkey while Victor grabs their bags and closes the car door, shifting Yuri’s weight expertly as he makes his way to the lift. It’s four floors up and then the ding that says they’ve arrived. Victor has to shift him again to dig out his keys, and Yuri grumbles into Victor’s hair at the disruption. 

The door opens and Yuri hears Makkachin’s eager whine and approaching run, and lets his feet drop to the floor so that they’re not both bowled over into the hallway. Victor rubs his face against the top of Yuri’s head as they disentangle, the kind of mindless affection that used to burn in Yuri’s gut when Yuuri had first moved to Russia. 

Now it warms him from the inside out, and he pulls their bags from Victor’s grip as he toes off his shoes so that Victor can kneel down on the floor and greet Makka properly. He drops their bags at the end of the shoe rack, but hangs their coats and lines up their shoes, Yuuri’s approving smile in the back of his mind. 

“Does she need to go out?” Yuri asks, and Victor shakes his head. 

“No,” he gives Makka one last rub and stands back up, groaning as he does. “Katya will have been by; it’s late enough.”

“C’mon, then,” Yuri sets a hand in Victor’s back and pushes him down the hall. “Shower, then stretch. Food. Bed.”

Victor laughs, that light, ringing laugh that echoes in the too-empty apartment and makes Yuri’s cheeks pink, but lets himself be steered into the bathroom. He gives a cracking yawn as Yuri shuts the door behind them and begins stripping him, yanking off Victor’s practice shirt and leggings, pulling his dance belt off without ceremony.

“Romance is dead,” Victor sighs plaintively, hauling Yuri’s own shirt off over his head.

“You can romance me after we’ve eaten, old man,” Yuri shucks his exercise tights and turns on the shower, cranking it to Fucking Hot the way that he likes it. “I’m disgusting, and also hungry.” He climbs in and shoves his head under the water, suppressing a gasp as the heat pounds into his sore muscles, pain and bliss all in one. He grabs the soap and lets Victor elbow him out of the way so that he can stand under the spray while Yuri rubs soap all over himself. 

It’s a perfunctory wash, hands to themselves and touching at a minimum beyond what’s necessary to grab various necessities past one another’s shoulders or hip. Victor scowls as Yuri rubs Yuuri’s 2-in-1 shampoo/conditioner through his hair, but doesn’t say a word, and Yuri lets him rinse first out of gratitude. 

Victor finishes up and steps out to towel off, leaving Yuri to stand under the spray with his eyes closed as he tries to find the will to do anything other than let hot water run over his naked body for the next year. 

“Protein shake and I’ll heat water for the instant ramen we don’t let Yuuri know about?” Victor’s voice is cheerful, if a little thin, and Yuri pauses briefly to marvel all over again at how his whole private demeanor has changed since Yuuri came into all their lives. 

“Sounds good,” Yuri answers, and reaches for the soap again as he hears the bathroom door close behind Victor.

He gives himself one, last, slightly more thorough cleaning, then steps out of the shower and stands naked in front of the mirror. He’s pink from scalp to sternum from the water, and still willowy in spite of how his body has clearly matured over the last three years. He doesn’t mind, really; he’s used to being small, he’s not honestly sure how he’d adjust to being tall and broad like Victor, or built like a brick shithouse the way that Otabek is. He doesn’t really understand what his partners find attractive about it, though, if he’s honest. Still… he thinks back to dancing, remembers the glimpsed reflections of himself and Victor, his own extensions long and delicate, quivering with elegant force even as Victor’s lines held strong and graceful beneath him, their bodies locked in perfect counterbalance. 

He lets the memory of it ease over him, his eyelids fluttering as he slides a slicked up finger between his legs and prepares himself. Maybe nothing will come of it; there’s certainly been plenty of nights when he, or they, or all of them fall asleep the second the food hits their stomachs, but he’s been wanting Victor all day, has wanted him since he woke up alone this morning, so. He gets himself ready, all efficiency even as he’s tempted to linger in the memory of Victor’s hands wrapping around his hips; if things go how he wants, he won’t need the memory of it at all.

Victor’s halfway through his bowl of instant noodles and pre-mixed powder when Yuri wanders out in an oversized sweatshirt of Otabek’s and nothing else, a protein shake in Victor's other hand as he alternates between slurping down shake and inhaling noodles. Something in Yuri’s soul dies a little at the thought of the tastes of strawberry shake combined with the Lime Chili Shrimp flavor Yuri knows is Victor’s favorite. Still, the smell of his own bowl of noodles hits him even as he’s pulling a face, and any hope he had of being seductive flies straight out the window as his stomach lets out an enormous growl.

Victor nearly chokes on his shake in his attempt not to laugh, but Yuri just rolls his eyes and begins shoveling noodles into his mouth. His own shake is raspberry, a beautiful dark pink in the plastic tumblr where it waits, but he’s not a heathen with no tastebuds like Victor, so he saves it for dessert. 

Yuri can feel himself starting to droop even as he slurps the last of his shake out of the glass with a straw. He’s always been like this; food hits his stomach, and he’s out like a light. He can see Victor smiling at him even as he slips on his shoes and coat and grabs Makka’s leash. 

“Go lie down,” Victor tells him, crossing the small kitchen to curl a hand behind his neck and press a kiss to his forehead. “I’m going to take Makka out one last time.”

Yuri just nods and yawns, dropping his mug and bowl in the sink to deal with later. The door closes behind Victor, and Yuri wanders back to the bedroom, stopping to brush his teeth on the way. There are two bedrooms in Victor’s apartment, one ostensibly Victor and Yuuri’s, one ostensibly his - it’s not uncommon, when all four of them are around, for it to end up Victor and Yuuri in one bed and Otabek and himself in the other, but it varies all the time. When they’d all finally, fully, got together, Victor had upgraded his bed to an extra-big model, something with enough space for all of them together, and it’s here that Yuri goes now, letting himself fall face-forward onto the plush pillowtop before forcing himself to make the effort to crawl up to the pillows and shove his legs under the duvet.

He’s more than halfway asleep when he hears Victor enter, Makka’s tags jingling as she makes her way over to the dog bed in the corner. He hears Victor pause, the rustling noises of him pulling off his clothes, and he hums into the pillow, spreading his legs in invitation.

“Любимый,” Victor whispers, slipping under the duvet and reaching out to push a piece of Yuri’s hair out of his eyes. 

“Vityusha,” Yuri murmurs, wriggling up against Victor’s bare chest and letting the sweatshirt ride up over the swell of his bare ass. Victor gives a cracking yawn, but his hand is warm as it traces down Yuri’s back, slipping between his legs to dip an exploratory finger between his cheeks. Yuri’s still warm and relaxed from the shower, and he can hear Victor’s breath catch at the ease of it. 

Yuri rocks his hips up, reaching down to adjust himself against the mattress. “C’mon, Vitka,” he mumbles, half into the pillow. “Want you.” He reaches over and shoves his hand down the front of Victor’s pajama pants without hesitation, wrapping his fingers around Victor’s thickening cock and pulling.

“Tell me you love me,” Victor demands, but he’s rolling on top of Yuri as he says it, settling his weight across Yuri’s back and hooking the waistband of his sleep pants under his balls. Yuri spreads his knees and Victor presses in, slow and smooth, bottoming out with a sigh.

“ _ Needy _ ,” Yuri grumbles, but it’s without rancor. “я тебя люблю, Vityusha.”

“Mmm,” Victor buries his face in the pillow next to Yuri’s, tucking his arms under Yuri’s so that he can curl them up to hold onto the front of Yuri’s shoulders. Their size difference really works like this, Victor long enough through the torso to stay buried in Yuri’s ass, but still keep his head on the pillow where Yuri can mouth at him lazily as Victor’s hips make little hitching motions against him. 

It’s good, the slow rocking adjustments, the press of Victor’s knees on the inside of his own, the steady, heavy, weight of Victor sprawled over his back. Yuri can feel himself edging closer, every gentle rub against the mattress pushing him after that little spark of friction in his belly. He brings his hands up and links their fingers, pushes their mouths together, and comes, easy and long, shuddering softly beneath Victor, who stills above him. 

“Good?” Victor asks after a minute, when the tension has drained from Yuri’s muscles, and he nods into the pillow.

“You?” Yuri asks, frowning as he thinks. “You didn’t come.”

“ _ Mmph _ ,” Victor’s half-asleep already. “‘s okay,” he says, “too tired. Later. C’n I stay here, though?”

Yuri wiggles briefly, making Victor lift up just enough that he can scoot over a couple inches, out of the wet spot, before he flops down again on the mattress. He exhales, letting Victor’s weight spread over him again, his half-hard dick still warm in Yuri’s ass. He loves it; loves being pressed into the bed; loves the weight and spread of Victor over and in him; loves waking up in the middle of the night or early in the morning to Victor fucking him awake. 

“Yeah,” Yuri answers, reaching a hand down and back to loop up over Victor’s hip and hook into the waistband of his pajamas, anchoring and reassuring in one as he lets his eyes drift close. He can feel the limp weight of Victor’s nearly unconscious form against his back, soft, even breaths moving the damp strands at the back of his neck. The bed is too big around them, too empty without their other partners, but he’s grounded in Victor, drifting on a sea of exhaustion and endorphins. “Yeah,” he mumbles again, voice muffled in the pillow beneath him. “It’s good. Stay.”

Tomorrow they’ll wake up and do it all again, one more day in a short week in a rapidly shortening season in an ever-progressing year. Another week, and they'll be four again, planets in asynchronous orbit, pulling on each other's gravity as they move in and out, come and go. 

For now, they are here, and, Yuri thinks as he slips into sleep, it's not enough, and more than he ever expected.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are love, uwu. Find me on twitter/tumblr/social media of your choice at @zjofierose, or come scream about YOI in [this server here](https://discord.gg/TYMxcAB).
> 
> ([the balcony scene](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7zXfYygXX0I), [the Infra](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bjERnGQiJfg))


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